


message received (loud & clear)

by girl412



Series: assigned ineffable at birth [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Coming Out, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Non-Linear Narrative, Or an attempt at least, Other, Post-Canon, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Sort Of, more they /them pronouns for crowley, warlock is a good bean. we lov that child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 02:41:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20807168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl412/pseuds/girl412
Summary: Crowley responds to some text messages.Warlock probably has questions.Aziraphale just wants Crowley to know that they're loved.





	message received (loud & clear)

**Author's Note:**

> okay first thing : regarding the non linear narrative, it's becoming a little harder to keep that running because we're reaching the part where these 2 storylines converge. tried to stay true to format and whatnot but the next few works in this series MAY have slightly different structures. we'll see. 
> 
> also. i am sort of sick and my head feels like it's full of cotton. this means:  
if you see any errors, please @ me & let me know.  
be gentle with me! im Tired with a capital TIRED

Crowley’s sprawled on Aziraphale’s sofa, the one that the angel’s been keeping around for them specifically. Half sitting, half lying, their long limbs askew – they look like the poster demon for Sloth, and Aziraphale thinks fondly, not for the first time, of how much he loves them. 

“Decent day out?” he asks. 

“Sure,” Crowley says. They give him a little smile. “Met this 5 year old called Emily. A real sweetheart.” 

Their happiness is practically tangible. 

Aziraphale wonders, idly, for a moment, what it’d be like if the two of them were parents. A child of their own, to love and care for and raise. They’d done it once before, if Warlock Dowling counted. 

“Anyway,” Crowley’s saying. “Did my act of community service by explaining nonbinary genders to a child. I did a good deed, now you must do a bad one.” 

“Sweetheart, that’s not how it works,” Aziraphale chides, doing his best not to smile. “We’re on our own side now. None of that, please.” 

Crowley chuckles. Then, thoughtfully, they pull their phone out of their pocket.

“Got a missed call and a message from an unknown number,” they say. “I’m a bit scared it’s, you know. My old side. Beelzebub _did _give me a commendation on that iPhone model with no headphone jack, wouldn’t be surprised if zey’ve got the hang of texting.” 

Aziraphale hums. “My dear, you don’t need to worry too much, I reckon. Hell’s never been polite enough to do that. If they wanted to get in touch with you, they’d just do it, in a way you couldn’t ignore.”

“Valid point,” Crowley says. “Gonna look now.”  


-

Aziraphale makes his comfort cocoa like a habit, on autopilot. Sugar, cocoa, hot milk, everything. He knows that Crowley’s tastes vary immensely from his own, and maybe tea would be a better choice, but something in his gut tells him to do this anyway.

“I feel like this’d change our lives forever,” Crowley had said. They’d smiled, then. “I know, I _know_, I’m being silly. I just feel some sort of way in my gut.” 

When Crowley’d opened the message, they’d gone pale, their entire posture tensing. 

Aziraphale had known that whatever it was, they needed time to process it themself first. 

So: hot cocoa, extra sugar. 

Crowley drinks it silently, not even commenting on the sugar. Then, as Aziraphale watches, they close their eyes, focusing. A little demonic miracle of their own, maybe. 

-

Demons, by nature, are not empaths. That is an entirely angel quality. However, Crowley’s been doing enough of Aziraphale’s blessings over the last few centuries that it doesn’t even occur to them that this sort of magic is out of their range. Magic depends on belief, and Crowley’s overflowing with that. Belief and confidence. Crowley’s always had great faith in themself. 

They think of Warlock with all the focus they can, sending their energy through the mobile phone in their hand. What was going on when Warlock had sent the message? What did Warlock need? 

The first thing they sense is a sense of urgency. This isn’t very helpful, so they dig down a little further. 

There’s excitement. Love. Anticipation. And maybe a bit of fear, but not much, and it’s not fear of Crowley. It’s fear of separation. 

Strange. Warlock actually misses Nanny Ashtoreth. 

Some part of Crowley hadn’t dared hope for that. 

-

The tense lines of Crowley’s body relax, and they let out a relieved breath. They smile, an unguarded, happy smile; the sort of smile that Aziraphale usually does not see unless it’s preceded by three bottles of good wine. 

“It’s probably good news,” they say. The size of their smile decreases just a little. “I mean, it’s not bad news.” 

“What is it?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Remember Warlock Dowling?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale nods.

Crowley hands him the phone. 

Aziraphale reads the message.

“What do you think I should do?” 

Aziraphale looks at them, silently, for a long moment.

“I think you should tell him,” he says, eventually. “Crowley, he loved you so much. I could sense it all the time. It was like a halo, the way he emitted it.” 

Crowley blinks. Aziraphale can tell they’re startled by this. 

“My darling,” Aziraphale says, sits next to them on the couch and gently puts an arm around them. “You’re lovely, you know that?”

“ ‘M a demon,” Crowley murmurs.

“An absolutely delightful one,” Aziraphale says, kissing them on the forehead. “I love you.” 

“Love you too, ‘Ziraphale.” Crowley takes a shaky breath. 

“I’m going to do it,” they whisper. 

-

Warlock’s still outside in the garden. He considers playing video games in the local library, on the computer that’s meant for research purposes only, and is about to go in and tell his parents that he’s going to the town when his phone pings with a new message.

_hello Warlock, my darling boy. this is Lilith Ashtoreth. i go by Anthony Crowley now_

_it’s a long story, sort of. but it’s me, i promise. _

Warlock frowns, thinking. There’s no doubt in his head that this _is _Nanny Ashtoreth (nobody else calls him their darling boy, after all) but if they’re not going by that name anymore he respects that. 

_is this a gender thing_, he types. _because if it is, u don’t need to worry. most of my favourite poets r transgender. i get it._

_right, OK. _

_did you need anything? _

The words spill out now. _i painted a picture, _Warlock types. He’s suddenly nervous about this. 

_it was a picture of you, _he adds. 

_i sent it in to a competition, for fun. didn’t expect nything outta it_

_but uh_

_i won_

_first place_

There’s silence for a moment, long enough to worry him, and then: _congratulations!!! I’m SO proud of you. didn’t know you do art though? _

_i love to paint_

_maybe it was all those stories you told me, about painting stars, i don’t know _

_art is so good_

_It is. _

Warlock takes a shaky breath. 

_do u think i could call u sometime? it’s weird, talking over text._

_Anytime, sugarplum. _

_If you don’t mind my asking – was there anything else? do you need anything? _

Warlock goes fuck it for the second time in an hour, presses call. 

-

“I understand if you can’t do it, why you can’t do it,” Warlock is saying to Crowley on the phone. “I mean, it’s pretty last-minute notice, and I know flights aren’t cheap, so. Just. I would’ve loved it if you could come, and I would be ready to pay for your tickets, even, but I don’t think my parents would like that very much.” 

“We’ll figure something out,” Crowley says. they’re not doing their Nanny brogue right now; they don’t feel it. “Text me the details. I’d love to be there.” 

“I thought you were Scottish,” Warlock says, softly. 

“Disguise,” Crowley explains. “Long story. I’ll tell you when we meet. OK?” 

“Okay,” Warlock whispers. “Uh, what do you want me to call you? Anthony, or ?” 

“Most people call me Crowley,” Crowley says, softly. “But you’re not most people, I sang you to sleep almost every night. You can call me whatever you want.” 

“Even Nanny?” Warlock asks.

“Yes,” Crowley says.

“And your pronouns?” 

“Vary a bit, depending on the day,” Crowley says. “Today it’s they/them.” 

“Oh,” Warlock says softly. Crowley gets the feeling that there’s something more he wants to say. 

They’re both silent for a minute. 

“Catch up with you later,” Warlock says. quick and awkward but at the same time, somehow full of care. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Crowley says, and then, because they can, “I love you.” 

“Love you too,” Warlock says. Crowley isn’t sure whether it’s the signal that’s crackling, or whether they hear a sniffle on the other end, but there’s definitely some shakiness there. 

“I’m so proud of you, my darling,” Crowley says, gently. 

“Thank you,” Warlock whispers. “Thank you so much.” 

-

“That was nice of you, sweetheart,” Aziraphale says. 

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley complains, no heat behind it at all. “Can I borrow your computer for a bit? We’ll look up flights and hotels.”

“Whatever for, my dear?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Warlock wants me there,” Crowley says. “So I’m going. and I’d appreciate having you by my side.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. He gently kisses Crowley on the side of their mouth. “Nowhere I’d rather be.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i mean  
both crowley and warlock were probably crying @ the end of that phone call let's be honest here


End file.
